


diamond

by counterheist



Series: heistverse [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Gen, Organized Crime, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2012-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-05 18:38:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4190685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/counterheist/pseuds/counterheist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four o’clock and all’s well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	diamond

**Author's Note:**

> Another Heist fic prequel that I promised years ago. Written for a [30 day drabble meme on tumblr](http://counterheist.tumblr.com/post/29322531804/day26).

People told him that snow muffled sound. Maybe it was true. All Romolo Vargas knew was that at four in the morning, in Moscow, in the snow, his every step sounded like gunshot. All things considered that was fairly appropriate. He could feel someone watching him— at least one from above, maybe more from the ground— but he couldn’t pinpoint where they were, which meant he couldn’t take them out before they made a mess of his coat. So he kept walking with sniper fire footfalls.  
  
Caution wasn’t his watchword but tacit living was a heavy part of family life anyway, so with each step he ran a finger over the safety of the pistol in his coat pocket. He let his eyes drift left, and right, and up, and around, searching for anything out of color, out of place. Human. He just wished someone would put a silencer on the goddamn snow. It unnerved him.  
  
Something whispered through the air at his feet, and by some chance he didn’t startle. Good. His image fueled the ease with which Romolo operated, both at home and abroad, and his luck fueled the ease with which he maintained his image. Even on a dead night in Moscow it wouldn’t do to be seen shrieking into the night. Cupping his hands around his mouth, Romolo took a moment to regroup before shouting at the sky. “Shoot a guy without even asking his name? That’s cold.”  
  
The surrounding warehouses, and washed-out lamplight, and deep snow gave no response other than a weak, watered-down version of Romolo’s challenge back to him. But at least that wasn’t a bullet to his heart. Kevlar bruises were still bruises, and Romolo really didn’t like being shot. He made an effort to stay away from the problem side of the barrel at all costs.  
  
“Come on, my Russian’s not that bad, is it?”  
  
Nothing. From the angle of the shot he guessed the shooter was above him, settled in on one of the warehouse roofs, but Romolo couldn’t tell for sure. Perhaps it was only his mind inventing stories. It wasn’t like Braginski to hire a guy who let off warning shots.  
  
“Hey! You awake up there?”  
  
 _CLICK_  
  
Romolo’s hand clenched over his pistol, drew it, and pointed it to his left, and above, just like he thought, to a shadowy set of lumps on top of a sloped roof. Some of them were drifts of snow. At least one was something much more interesting, had to be, couldn’t be anything else, because Romolo had been running his mouth off again and he still wasn’t dead yet. And that was interesting. He decided to go the philosophical route.  
  
“How much is it worth to you that I’m about to go in there and kill your boss?”  
  
Well.  
  
One man’s philosophy was another man’s incredibly direct way of getting things done. And the wind was getting colder. Chats were best left to warmer climates.  
  
The reply, when it came, was unexpected, young, and deceptively light. “Have you ever thought about snowflakes?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Snowflakes,” the snow bank on the roof said. “Every single one of them is unique. Just like us.”  
  
He’d heard that before, yes, once or twice during the winter when somebody’s girlfriend thought she was being poetic. “So?”  
  
“That’s exactly it,” the voice continued, “every single one is beautiful, but nobody cares. There are too many to care about. They’re like sardines. We are. But you could have a case of 50 diamonds cut all exactly the same, and then what would you say?”  
  
“I wouldn’t say anything,” Romolo said, “I’d be too busy walking away with them.”  
  
Neither of them spoke, until Romolo had to ask. “Was there more?”  
  
“You wanted to know. You’re snowflakes to me, and I’m snowflakes to them. So unless you can prove to me that you’re a snowflake made of diamonds, I’m going to shoot you, and you’re going to die.”  
  
…what? Romolo blinked, rubbed his eyes, and blinked again. “I’m not going to melt. Is that proof enough for you?” Something pierced through his hood, too fast to see, and dragged him back half a step before he could right himself. Fine. Not enough. “What do you have to lose by letting me try?  
  
Romolo waited a minute.  
  
Ten.  
  
At fifteen, he stepped forward, and let the snow bank on the roof’s choice propel him step by gunshot step into the darkness. This couldn’t be so bad. Braginski couldn’t be so great if he couldn’t inspire the love, or the fear, of the diamond snow around him.


End file.
